Who's at the Door?
by Tiger Woody
Summary: Doctor Watson has had trouble coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes will never again come through the door of 221B


**Aha . . . A Sherlock fic. I figured everyone focuses so much on what John will do when Sherlock comes back-and not enough on the fact that at some point, John would have stopped expecting him at the door.**

Every day, people die. Thousands and thousands of people; all over the world. So why is it that the only ones that we care about, are the ones that affect us personally? Is not every death just as bad? Is it not a normal and natural thing for a body to simply stop working? Why mourn for someone who has passed, if in the end we all go the same way eventually?  
These were the thoughts John Watson forced himself to think as he sat alone in his flat, waiting for someone to pop in and offer the distraction of company for at least a few minutes.  
It was almost like they came in shifts. Every once and awhile, Molly will have "forgotten" something, followed no more than half an hour later by Mrs. Hudson coming round to do the cleaning "just this once" because she's "not your housekeeper". Then he'd get a break for tea, and maybe a few hours to watch telly, though there was hardly ever something worth his time on. Then Lestrade would come, sometimes with Anderson or Sally in tow. He'd always have some strange excuse, like asking for help on a case he knew John'd be no good at, or just "checking in on an old friend". Mrs. Hudson would come again after that, and offer him something to snack on, to which he would politely decline. In the evening, Mycroft would come by, always with the same greeting; "Evening John . . . Have you forgiven me yet, or am I still black listed for causing the suicide of the century?"  
And that's when John would kick him out of 221B.  
While it had been hard to return to the flat at first, John eventually forced himself. There was nowhere else he could afford to live, after all. And in the beginning Mrs. Hudson had needed him around just as much as he had needed her. After that it became habit.  
His psychiatrist was worried, but not so much so she'd say it aloud. He still read her notes upside down, though, and he was almost certain she knew about it. He had taken the death of his best friend quite hard; as anyone would expect. And being reminded of it constantly thanks to media and social interactions didn't exactly help the healing process. But it was coming close to having been an entire year since Sherlock's death, and John was still . . . Strange.  
He had gone back to work after a week, though his coworkers noticed he seemed distracted almost all the time.  
If he were invited to a party, he'd almost always try to find away out of it, making some excuse about staying home. If it were one that he knew he'd be dragged to dead or alive (like Mrs. Hudson's birthday or Lestrade's Promotion) he'd simply wait out the entire party standing by the beverages. He wouldn't speak unless spoken to and even then the conversations were short. It was obvious to everyone that something was very, very wrong with Dr. John Watson.  
Even he didn't know why he was acting the way he was. There was no doubt that he and Sherlock Holmes had been remarkably close friends; worked together nearly two years and lived together the entirety of that time. Despite Sherlock's in depth knowledge of John's life, he was constantly learning more and more about the detective with every passing day. And even when he died, John hadn't learned anything. And he never would.  
Perhaps that was what it was. He had never reached the end of the story of Sherlock Holmes; and now the only person in the world who could tell it was gone. Could it really be reduced to that? He grieved only because of curiosity for the ending that was never fulfilled? Surely there was more to it than that.  
Sherlock wouldn't have thought so. Everything and anything could somehow be broken down to the tinniest little substances; taking out all emotional meaning. That was how he functioned; convincing himself that he wasn't all that different-if you broke all men down you'd find the cold sociopath that he was. Too bad John had only realized this about him after he was gone, or he wouldn't have hesitated to let Sherlock know that he was in fact different and whatever the hell was wrong with him was not normal nor natural human behavior.  
So it must have been more than that. Maybe the circumstances in which Sherlock died. He took his own life-something no one had expected. The press ate it up as a reaction to being caught as a fraud, but John new better. Someone or something had forced Sherlock to do what he did. And seeing Moriarty dead on the roof confirmed his suspicions even further.  
He himself had come up with multiple theories. Moriarty had drugged him, Moriarty had threatened him-but what on Earth could threaten Sherlock Holmes? No, there was a more scientific reason. There had to be.  
But why hadn't he explained! Why had he called John just to lie to him? Why did he always make everything so bloody hard!  
There was a knock on the door then. Startled, John jumped slightly, then rose to his feet to answer the door. No surprise; it was Lestrade.  
For the first few days, John had let himself get excited at the sound of a knock at the door. He had convinced himself that Sherlock was going to come back somehow; because he was Sherlock, and he wouldn't just die like that. But now he knew better.  
Now he knew Sherlock Holmes was never coming back.


End file.
